Sometimes When it Rains
by Miss DiNozzo
Summary: The rain is pouring outside Mike's window, and all that makes him do is think of... her. Mike OOC, but not too badly. Note: This story is a little bit depressing. Rated T for mild language and some mature themes.


The rain pours outside my window, like little tears falling down from the sky. They cast shadows on the all too familiar landscape. The small bakery on the corner, the flower shop down the road, the park across the street— their presence is and has always been a constant. With so little dependency in my life, it's nice to have these things that I know will be there each morning when the sun comes up and each night when it sets. From my high rise complex, I can see all of the world that lies below me. Often, there are people walking about on the streets and going into shops. I usually see kids with their parents on the playground. But no one is out today. Everyone is taking refuge in their homes from the storm. Everyone but me.

I'm not relaxing with my family, maybe watching a movie or doing a craft. I'm not preparing dinner for my loved ones or chasing my children around the house. I don't look out at the rain and think about what a mess my kids will be when they inevitably slip outside. I sit alone, in a wooden chair, facing the window. Because I don't have a family to pass time with. I don't have a home anymore. All I have is my fortress in the sky, far removed from the rest of the world. All I have is myself.

My mother used to tell me that it rained because heaven was crying. She was a spiritual woman, so I always passed it off as an excuse for her to promote my faith in God, but now I believe her. The heavens have a reason to cry. Hell, they have a reason to sob. But they won't. No, they don't see my suffering. They only see what they want to see, because love is blind.

What a gift it would be to be blind. There's something my grandfather used to say, but until now I don't really think I understood it. "Ivory temples in the blind man's eye," he would say. Now I know that he meant that seeing is often misleading— sight is deceptive. But people who cannot see the physical representation cannot be fooled by it. I frequently think of what it would be like to be able to see and feel things because the physical distraction is gone, to be able to see without seeing anything at all. For sight is to be found in the very lack thereof. I realize now that my grandfather was warning me not to see things that might cause me pain. If you don't see it, it can't hurt you.

And suddenly I can't sit in that chair anymore. I can't be idle and stare out at something that brought me comfort for so long. Now, it brings me no comfort at all. I rise and bury my head in my hands. _Why?_ _Why now? _I still can't believe it. What happened haunts me every time I close my eyes. It's like it was written in the back of my mind, placed there to torture me until eternity. But it wasn't. All this is a part of the grieving process. Everyone feels this way when something like this happens. But no one else is as incredibly alone as I am. No one else was blessed with the curse that stole the light from their life and condemned them to a lifetime in a very dark place. But I guess I earned this hell somehow. No one has luck this bad.

Now, I am moving against my will. My feet drag me to the place I've feared since it happened. They carry me to the place that I never thought I'd go to again. I will them to stop, but they don't. They just keep moving, like what they are doing is as commonplace as breathing. But, of course, I know it's not. I am fully aware of how much trouble I am asking subconsciously for. I stop in the middle of The Hallway and turn to face The Door. And before I know it, my hands are turning The Knob, and I'm inside The Room.

I instantly tense upon seeing everything I abandoned long ago, but my feelings quickly turn from fearful to reminiscent. The Room is the same way I remembered it— the white crib in the corner, the white curtains swaying in the blow of the air vent, the tan changing table blending in with the dark peach walls. It is all exactly the same, as if no time has passed since before everything in my world turned upside down. In fact, it's beautiful, and for a split second, just one second, I'm as happy as I was that first day. The first day I saw her and knew that she would be my wife. The first day I held my child in my arms. But my euphoria is bittersweet, because somewhere in my mind, I know that this isn't real anymore. I know that I had to say goodbye. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do.

And like a punch to the gut, the ghost of a smile that played on my lips is gone, replaced by the depression that has plagued me for months now. This isn't a reality anymore. None of this will ever be real again. Because at some point, and I still don't know where, everything fell apart. Maybe it was when our daughter couldn't breathe on her own. Maybe it was when her heart rate started declining. Maybe it was when her heart stopped. To me, this room will never be real. It will always be the place I never brought my child home to, the place I never rocked my baby to sleep, the place where my heart breaks again and again. This will always be the room where my wife took her own life.

Something inside of me breaks and I fall to my knees. With everything I have left in me, I scream. The sound is loud and angry, echoing through the desolate space. I scream again and again, sobbing now. Does anyone see my pain? Is there no one in this world who knows what I'm feeling? Or am I really alone? I scream until there is nothing left, and then I keep shouting. It feels like I was hit by a freight train, but somehow I survived. I survived to feel how much it hurts. I crumple to the ground, as far as I can go, and wrap up in a little ball. The images flash through my mind, and I close my eyes against the sudden sharpness they have.

I see her again, in my mind, like a tape on constant replay. She says "I love you," and kisses me, and she holds me. She tells me that she and our baby will wait for me. And then she shoots. The gun drops to the floor again and again as I witness the tragedy unfold in my mind. Of course, I never really saw her shoot the gun. I wasn't home when she did. I just imagine it, and the fact that I wasn't home to stop her clouds me with the most guilt I've felt in my entire life. At the end of my hallucinations, she just disappears, every single time. She fades into the distance, just like she did in reality.

I scream again as the violent terror shoots through me. The psychological effects her death has had on me are immense. I'm constantly at war with myself. But inside I know what I want. I know I want to do exactly what she did. I _want _to die. I _want _to end everything that causes me pain and suffering. I _want _to let them find me dead, lying in a pool of my own blood. But every time I've tried, I just can't bring myself to pull the trigger. This time, I swear, I'll do it. I'll die here, in the same room as the only woman in the world who ever mattered to me. I'll finally get to see them again, reunited in the great beyond, the place after death, the unknown.

But then I look out the window, and my resolve crumbles to dust, replaced by a subtle undertone of a smile. She loved the rain. I remember the night I told her I loved her. She was wearing a tan and blue polka dotted dress. We walked along the beach, holding hands and laughing with each other. I remember that the wind blew her hat away and we ran together to try and catch it. We missed it but she smiled and laughed with me. She stared after it with a content expression on her face, like she was the happiest woman in the world. And right then, I knew that I had to have her or I'd die. So I told her. And she told me. I felt invincible after that, like nothing could stop us. The day we got married was the best day of my life.

But then we had problems conceiving. Three miscarriages and broken spirits preceded the conception of our daughter. But she was so happy. She was so damn happy when she found out she was going to be a mother. I was the same. And so when she went into early labor, we rushed to the hospital immediately, and our daughter was born, two months early. For the short time we had, everything was perfect. But nothing lasts forever.

So that gets us to the present, my wife so depressed she killed herself, and myself so angry that I'm considering the same. But she wouldn't be happy with me for following in her footsteps. I can't just drop everything now. I have to be stronger than this, for the love that I still feel for her. To get out now would be cowardly and weak. And she would have wanted more from me. So that's just it. I'll fight this. I'll fight for my own mental well being. I'll fight past the grief. I'll fight for her.

My new plan in my back pocket, I rise from the ground and dry my tears. I dust off my clothing to remove the figurative dust, to wash away the awful feelings of this experience. I slowly walk over to the changing table and rip a piece of paper from the pad that we kept there to record feedings and changings. I hastily flip it over and start.

My Dear Wife,

Sometimes when it rains, I remember you. But I don't need the weather to tell me to think about you. I think about you all the time. I don't think I'll ever stop loving you. Sometimes I wonder if I wasn't enough, because I couldn't keep you here with me, but then I realize that no one could have been enough. I can't ask you to understand some of the things I've done. I can't ask you to pardon these inexcusable actions and thoughts. Just don't remember me as the man I was when you left. Remember me as the man who was happy and strong, the man who loved you as unconditionally as you loved him. Because I still love you as much as I did the first time I saw you. Look after our daughter for me. I can't wait to meet her someday. And sing her a lullaby for me?

~Your Husband

And then I leave the room, the memories, and the note. I don't know if I'll ever go back.


End file.
